


Now, now.

by lmeden



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:18:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that dreams are meant for escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now, now.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because of fanlay's fabulous fanart (all of it), but most expecially because of her [most recent, absolutely gorgeous Arthur/Eames sketch](http://fanlay.livejournal.com/9226.html#cutid1). Simply stunning. I couldn't get it out of my head, but I didn't want to write porn, so here's the result.

People always say that you can escape reality through dreams – forget about stress, about the job or lover that torments you, forget about the sheer pain inherent to life – but Arthur knows that they're wrong. A conscious dreamer, one who enters a dream of their own free will and knows exactly what that dream will look like, who will be there in the dream with them, can always _feel_ the dream.

Arthur hasn't decided, though, as to the true nature of the sensation. At some moments, walking through a dreamscape, the dream feels like the heavy banding of the lawn chair that he is currently (and unconsciously) lying prone upon, digging into his back in sharp lines. Sometimes Arthur can feel the soft cradle of a pillow or bundled jacket beneath his head, pressing intimately against his cheek. With concentration, and practice, Arthur has learned to banish the sensation, the dream weight, and immerse himself fully in the dreaming. But he prefers not to, normally. Like his totem, the feeling reminds him of reality, and that nothing is real.

Still, though, on long jobs Arthur is forced to push the sensation back. Or else he might begin to feel the oddest things at the oddest times; the tingling of a foot gone numb, the tug of the needle in his arm. None of which were conducive to concentration.

Today is not a job. He is not stealing secrets, or performing an inception. He is not even testing a new compound for Yusuf or any other dream chemist. He is resting, allowing his mind to create a landscape intuitively. He wants to see what lurks behind his thoughts.

He is walking city streets. This is not uncommon, except that the streets are paved with cobblestones, and the buildings rise only three stories high at the uppermost. No smog grays the bright blue sky vaulting above him, or taints the white light of the sun. The projections walking the streets wear old clothes; jackets, and pants, and skirts so out of fashion as to be historic. Arthur smiles and nods at a young woman with a bouncing, bell-shaped skirt as he walks by. She blushes and looks down at her folded hands.

Arthur looks for the cracks in the dream. For there will be cracks. Little holes and inconsistencies that will lead straight to the nether regions of his mind. Somewhere nearby, this landscape's bright, innocent façade will part and allow him insight into his subconscious. If only he can find where.

His eyes narrowed critically, Arthur slows to a stroll (just enough to look for long moments, but remain inconspicuous in the eyes of projections) and gazes up and down the street, taking in the doorways and windows, examining any portal whatsoever. Anyplace that could serve as a gateway. And after long moments, he finds it. The crack, the splinter.

Just across the street, four houses down, a small door is tucked inside an alleyway. It sits in the lee of the building, and is darkly shadowed by the precipitous angle of the sun. Arthur can see that the door is not closed, but opened a sliver. Beyond, he can see no light, only darkness.

Arthur steps out off the curb, ready to cross the street and walk over to the door, open it. But a projection across the way suddenly glances up, its gaze finding Arthur's with preternatural intensity. Arthur stops, stoops to peer at the ground, and then turns back to the sidewalk. As he steps back up he sees to projection look away and forget him. He'll have to stay on this side of the street for now.

Walking faster, Arthur brushes past the strolling projections, trying not to get too excited. He doesn't want to raise their attention again. And finally he is almost there. He reaches the point directly across the street from the doorway and, heedless of the projections now, steps out onto the cobblestones.

Arthur's breath shortens at the thought of finally seeing into his subconscious. He has wanted to attempt this experiment many times, but between jobs and experimentation in the name of research, he has never quite found the time. Now, in the wake of Robert Fischer, he has found some time to rest, and can work as he pleases.

His breath is shortening, his pulse quickening. As his quick steps grow even quicker, Arthur sees the projections all stop and stare at him, all at once. Slowly, they begin to move towards him. But Arthur is faster.

Before they can take more than two steps, Arthur is off the street and over the next curb. Anticipation pulses through him, nearly physical. Very physical.

Arthur slows down almost to a halt. The dream weight, the sensation of the dream, is back upon him. He can feel the pressure of the soft pillows pressing into his back, his back pressing down into them. He can also feel, more unusually than usual, a breath of cool air across his thighs, and a hand on his thigh, pressure as his leg is lifted.

He stops completely; stunned by the realization that someone is touching him as he dreams. Touching him very intimately, it appears, because as he attempts to process this invasion a ghostly hand moves across his dick, which half-hardens in reaction. He finds it repulsive that his body would respond so to an anonymous caress. Arthur grits his teeth against the sensation, but his sudden arousal is strong. He looks up at the doorway, no more than five steps away now, so close, and yet so elusive.

Another firm stroke and his dick presses against soft cotton. Arthur narrows his eyes and watches the projections creep closer, slowing now that he has stopped. Then, before he can think, Arthur allows his muscles to loosen and pure, pleasurable sensation to take him for a single instant, and as he falls to the ground, the swoop of vertigo carries him back to wakefulness.

Arthur jolts in place as he wakes. His molester snatches his hand back and away from Arthur's dick. By instinct, Arthur reaches to the bedside table, brushing up against another hand that is reaching as well, but not quite quickly enough, and picks up his Glock. It weighs heavy in his hand, enough so to act as counterweight to his arousal, and he swings it irrevocably around until it comes up short, stopped by the giving flesh of the other man.

Slowly, Arthur allows his eyes to open.

The muzzle of Arthur's gun nestles up under Eames' chin, right on the most delicate skin of his neck. With his legs spread, one calf balanced on Eames' shoulder and Eames' hands curling possessively on Arthur's knee and hip, and Arthur's dick hard in his cotton briefs, Arthur considers pulling the trigger just that half click backwards. Far enough to shoot Eames, and maybe, with any luck, kill him.

"Now now, Mr. Eames."

Arthur's voice curls around the words, wrapping them in hatred. Eames' own lips begin to curl into a tiny smile, and his eyes narrow as he looks down at Arthur.

"Morning, Arthur."

His voice is dark. Arthur stares into Eames' dark eyes, so pleased with themselves and alien to Arthur. (He doesn't understand Eames, doesn't know what to think of him, with his cavalier attitude and complete and total competence with everything; doesn't get _anything_ about him, not his half-finished shave or the way he can slip into others' apartments without them knowing and somehow, with just a look, persuade said others to drop their gun – which was beginning to feel too heavy for his arm anyway.)

Arthur lays the Glock back down onto the bedside table. Eames leans forward, and his hand shifts from Arthur's hip to his wrist, drawing the needle out of his thin veins. Arthur lets him.

He draws his other leg back to his chest, shifting as it brushes against his dick, which twitches in reaction. And as Eames lays the needle carefully down and turns back to Arthur, a wider, smug smile spreading across his face, Arthur pushes up onto his elbows, plants his foot onto Eames' taut stomach, which turns out to be a perfect place to put it, and kicks him away.


End file.
